dogster

Having drunk a perfectly fine Pouilly Fume and, with no thought at all, having booked a three month trip in a matter of minutes, Dogster fell into India.

Those interested readers, already anxious to know, in lurid detail, the events that led me here could do no better than refer to the thread ‘Dogster gets drunk and books a trip to India’. [Should you be even more interested in previous travel adventures and wish to know what the type of tourist I am, the thread ‘Dogster? Bhutan’ will provide you with altogether more than you need to know.]

Remember, if there’s an idiot thing to do, a wrong way to turn, a mistake to be made, the dog will do it. But, courtesy that fine wine, destiny, the time, the cash and the innate stupidity required to embark on such an adventure at short notice, I found that the many Gods of India were [mostly] on my side.

Melbourne to Bangkok to Chennai on Thai business class. An easy transfer to the domestic airport where, quite by surprise, I found myself surrounded by young men in red T-shirts, grabbing for my bags...

The Kingfisher Airlines experience:

I can’t speak highly enough of Kingfisher. All up I flew with them seven times. If you want to fly in India at staggeringly cheap rates and avoid ALL the hassle of the airport, then I gotta say – fly Kingfisher.

No stress – no tipping - the absolute minimum waiting time, no confusion, no arghhhh where do I go, what do I do, where’s the check-in, arghhh, I’m hot, tired, I’m juggling fifteen bits of baggage, I’m in India, it’s strange, I’m stupid, old and should never have left home…. Impressive.

Your taxi/auto-rickshaw arrives at the airport. Instantly, and I mean, instantly, there will be a young man in a red T-shirt at the kerb-side. He’ll load your bags onto a trolley and escort you into the airport. Those of you who know Indian airports will also know that your first stop will be a security check for your luggage. The young man will handle that, while you show your documents to the soldier at the door, and wait, as long as it takes, for your checked luggage to emerge from a fierce-looking X-ray machine. Then the red T shirt will escort you to the check-in. Which won’t take very long at all.

If there’s a queue, if there’s madness or a delay, then another young man, or woman, in red will pop up beside you, check your paperwork and, courtesy a little machine at their waist [like an old-fashioned tram conductor,] punch out your boarding pass while you’re waiting – so, once you hit the desk, there’s nothing to do but wait briefly while they tag the bag [and your credit card if you’ve booked over the net.]

If you look completely overwhelmed, I’m sure someone else in red will pop up with a valium and a shoulder massage – but I may have dreamt that bit. This is for economy class. Travel Kingfisher First Class and they pick you up in a palanquin and carry you to the plane. Dancing girls in red saris strew the tarmac with rose petals. A band plays.

Somehow, they’ll manage to serve you a perfectly acceptable full meal, even if the flight is 45 minutes long. They’ll even give you a menu, a free pen, headphones and smile. And somehow, they’ll manage to be calm, extremely pleasant, supportive, look after the old, the young and the infirm and manage to control those passengers who clearly have never been on a plane in their lives. One man, on my Goa flight, stood up and wandered down the aisle as the plane was about to take off – blissfully unaware that it might be best to sit down and buckle up. One young lad managed to tip the entire meal in his lap, he was so excited. This was a test of the stewardesses – given the overwhelming lechery of young men in India, his curry-soaked crotch was left to him to attend to.

Some of the passengers will take anything that isn’t nailed down off the plane with them – the in-flight magazine, the shopping guide, the sick bag, the plastic envelope they came in, the headphones, the pillow, the free pen, the bottles of water and, if they can get away with it, the meal; food, knife, fork and spoon, menu, sugar, salt, the cellophane wrapper, the napkin and, very possibly, the tray. I thought I saw one man trying to prize the television off the seat in front of him – but I may be mistaken.

Watch and wonder.

Then, when you get off, there’ll be more young men in red at the baggage pick-up with a trolley to escort you, and your luggage, to the door. If you’re smart, there will be a man with a sign ready to zoom you to your hotel. If you’re not, there‘ll probably be a pre-paid taxi booth. If you’re unlucky, then you’ll be cast to the wolves – the taxi drivers waiting outside. If you’re stupid, you’ll pay too much, end up in something that once resembled a car with a total stranger heading into town.

But you know, you’ll arrive. The amount of stress you go thru will entirely depend on you – there’ll be no reason for most of it. [not that that’s ever stopped dogster] It’ll dissolve – particularly if you head to the Taj Hotels, the Oberoi’s, the Leela’s. In this instance it was the Taj West End, Bangalore.

And a classy joint it was. Mr. Dogster was picked up in the hotel limo, given cold towels and a whole lotta love, an upgrade and a room with the nicest, marble-est bathroom in the world. [Admittedly Mr. Dogster had to do just a tiny bit of complaining to achieve all this, but no matter – things worked out fine]. I wish I could’ve stayed there longer – but I was to return...

dogster

The Golden Chariot

A sense of adventure and occasion drew me to this particular voyage. It was to be the very first, world premiere journey on a new luxury train.

http://www.theluxurytrains.com/en/in...olden-chariot/

The website will fill you in on the details. The pictures do not lie. But they don’t tell the real story of that first, remarkable ride. Not everything went to plan: but then, I didn’t think for a moment that it would - which was more than fine by me. I’ve long learnt that once things settle into a routine that corruption sets in – the staff become bored, blank-faced, the grovel for tips supersedes the desire to serve, events become habit, the freshness of it all can disappear – not on this trip.

There was a real desire to provide a great adventure – and this they did. Like all touristic, group endeavors, a lot depends on the other passengers. A train load of elderly British tourists, for example, can be like a journey into a dull, colorless hell. On this gala occasion we paying tourists were very definitely in the minority. Seven of us, two Brits, two Germans, two young Belgian backpackers and one idiot Australian [me] huddled in the midst of eighty Indians – and a very lively bunch they were. All freebies – journalists, many, many photographers, executives from the various companies involved with the running of the train, heavies and lightweights hurled together in a confined space for a week, drinking, laughing, chattering, eating, touring: a volatile, energetic mish-mash of personalities, all full of themselves and the joy of life itself.

What a lucky man I was to be in the midst of them. They embraced me and the other tourists, drawing any of us who were interested into the great debate of India, the politics, the pain, the joys of just being Indian. There wasn’t a moment when I wasn’t joined by someone, anxious and eager to hear my opinion on their new venture – some for professional reasons – some just for fun. My words – and picture – kept appearing, daily, in the newspapers – many of them were filing daily stories. The Times of India featured my ugly mug three times in a week – I was a star.

Not really – the train was the star – and a lushly decked out diva she was. Fresh, new, clean, luxurious, smooth, stylish – this was a classy gal. Not everything worked... but bit by bit things clicked into action as the days flew by. By now it’ll be ticking over like clockwork.

None of this bothered me. I fully expected things would go, occasionally off the rails – and they did. But this was the first trip, remember. Trying to corral eighty crazed Indian journalists etc onto a sightseeing bus at the same time was no easy feat. Trying to attend to their quirks and oddities, their needs to meet their print deadlines, their peculiar dining habits [dinner at 11.30 p.m., late breakfasts, a great deal of booze, shmooze and revelry – to name just a few].

We seven tourists were thrust into the middle of it. A better introduction to India I could not imagine. So often tourists to this country meet only receptionists, concierges, drivers, room service boys, guides - and every breed of low-life hassler, taxi-driver, rickshaw man and con artist that India seems to produce in millions. There are, of course, another zillion or so people in this extraordinary country who have absolutely no interest in ripping you off: educated, intelligent, passionate, professional, articulate people – I had the great good fortune to be in the company of 80 or so of them. That gave me a glimpse into the other realities of India, the ones it’s sometimes difficult to remember when you are being harassed by yet another opportunist, yet another con-man, yet another taxi driver who wants to rip you off. I met quite a few of them in the ensuing two months.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll need a day or so to write up the next chapter in this enthralling adventure. Stay tuned....

dogster

I'm on a roll. Here's the next bit. Probably nobody'll read it, but here goes. Then I'll stop for a breather.

dogster

As I said, not everything went to plan.

As I wandered down to reception ready to check out, ready to head off to the train around 4.00 p.m. I was careful to let them know where I was heading. It was a big deal, this train, everybody knew about it, all Karnataka was proud of their newest, grooviest attraction. As they squeezed my credit card to extract revenge for that massage, that dinner, those drinks, all the little rewards I given myself after my epic voyage, I noticed a large bus pulling out of the drive...

No prizes for guessing where that bus was going. It was, as I later discovered, jam-packed with all those freebie Indian journalists and photographers heading, I thought for the train. This tragic paying passenger had somehow been left off that little list. A brief grey cloud passed over my face. Perhaps an unkind word fell from my lips – but, no matter. Bangalore had taxis.

A grubby vehicle, held together by string, screeched to a halt outside the Taj, I was loaded in it and careful instructions given the driver by the concierge. We hurtled out through the streets of Bangalore, a mayhem of all the sights and sounds of India. Crowds pressed up against the car, children threw themselves at the tourist; clammy, grasping hands clawed at the window. One long traffic jam finally ended at the station. I fell out of the car, fully expecting a man in a turban and the words ‘Golden Chariot’ to glide me to the train. Foolish me.

Not a soul. Not from the Golden Chariot, anyway. Just 8,000 other people, all waiting for their assorted trains. I dragged my bags up a flight of steps, found the right platform and a kindly station master who ushered me to an empty waiting room and dumped me there. His hand gestures indicated I should wait. The 8,000 people peered in at me. I peered back. I felt faintly stupid.

Luckily Dogster has been around. I knew I was in the right place, it was the right date – but very clearly, not the right time. Not by a long shot. Nothing to do but settle in and either laugh – or cry.

I chose the former.

The next five hours would be some of the most entertaining of my life. Never a boring moment in an Indian train station. My luggage was safe – so, I felt, was I. We went exploring - me and my camera. It was my first experience of Indian railways.

This suburban Bangalore train station was a vast melting pot of sights and sounds, the flood of people waiting, eating, talking, watching – me, mostly. They were delighted to have a tourist attraction in their midst. Secret photos were taken, smiles exchanged. There was laughter and conversation, winks and glances – I was the object of considerable fascination – they, in turn, provided me with a passing parade of continuous entertainment – it was a fair bargain and both sides entered into it with glee. The Golden Chariot was conspicuous by its absence. I was conspicuous by my presence.

Little by little, signs that the train would, one day, arrive appeared. A vast banner was laid down along the platform, then slowly attached to a frame, laboriously hung upside down, taken down, taken off the frame, reattached and re-hung. Men dangled from the roof, smart-looking P.R. people arrived with clip-boards, made notes, then left.

The sign read: MANY WORLDS. ONE VOYAGE. How right they were – and it hadn’t even begun.

A line of men in floppy white trousers, yellow shirts and purple turbans wandered in and sat in a perfect line along one wall, just waiting for me to take pictures, a troupe of young dancing girls in orange pants, bright green blouses and a lot of jewellery headed for another waiting room, giggling like crazy, excited. I took their picture, too. Matter of fact, I took hundreds of pictures. Polystyrene statues appeared and were distributed around a flight of steps. Cardboard disks on sticks were arranged in a line, looking for all the world like gold lollypops. Somehow I thought that this was all for me. I was just a little early for the party. No matter.

All this was watched with increasing interest by the passing population of the platform. After a while I ceased to be their main object of interest – which, I confess, was rather a relief. Trains came. Trains left. Crowds of people, almost all young men, lined up in a disciplined fashion along the edge of the platform – disciplined, that is, till their train arrived. Then the mayhem began – that’s when the men in strange slouch hats and khaki uniforms appeared with long truncheons and beat the mob into submission. Whack! went the truncheon. Another young man was walloped into compliance. Whack! A group scattered, laughing like drains. Whack! A dozen children fled for cover. Whack! Whack! Whack! And the train was loaded. I wondered just what was in store for me.

It was a long but fascinating five hours. That missing bus full of journalists had been wined and dined somewhere else entirely - the train wasn’t scheduled to board till 9.00 p.m. Nobody told me. One by one, other lost passengers arrived and were sent to the waiting room. None of us had the faintest idea what was going on – none of us was overly fussed, though, I have to say. It was kinda exciting. I was getting a little tired, a little hungry - but the adventures of this railway station were so bizarre that I certainly wasn’t bored...

The sun went down, the dancing girls, the men in purple turbans emerged, garlands were placed in a pile ready for distribution, flower petals scattered. Little by little, more passengers arrived, police gathered, a gaggle of photographers and T.V. crews turned up. A ceremonial flower arrangement with oil lamps was plonked on the platform. Through all of this trains arrived, passengers were bludgeoned, trains departed, their desperate cargo hanging out the windows, watching events. The television lights sprang into life. The bus of freebee [probably drunk] journalists finally drew up outside the station, important men in expensive suits gathered in clumps at the foot of the stairs, the dancing girls danced, the men in purple turbans produced drums from their pants and let rip – and at last, long last, the Golden Chariot pulled in to the platform.

It was Showtime.

twotravel

Brilliant! What a great start to an epic adventure, it's a bit early or I'd join you in a glass or two.. loving this report.
Pauline.

ekscrunchy

Fantabulous!

dogster

Thanks for the encouragement.

Suddenly, after two weeks back at home, it all seems to be pouring out - so, if it's not too dull, too much detail, I'll push on...

dogster

I was ushered from the platform, taken outside the station and, probably because I was the first to arrive all those hours ago, turned round and, in full glare of T.V. cameras, lights, many photographers and the assembled throng, shoved up the steps as if I had just arrived. No policemen were needed to bludgeon me: I have no problems with minor fame, no hesitation in featuring on the National News – as long as its not in handcuffs.

Drums pounded, pretty girls danced and smiled enthusiastically, I smiled inanely back, was garlanded, given assorted blessings, a bunch of unwieldy flowers and a large pink tikka on my forehead - everything BUT my luggage and some indication of what to do next. No matter. There was a train in front of me – clearly all I had to do was get on it. I relaxed, took many photographs and watched as the rest of the passengers went through their baptism of fire. It was fun.

The British lady wasn’t so lucky, poor thing. She was so excited she fell flat on her face coming up the steps, her demise probably captured live on Indian T.V. – but there was such an air of festivity, such an air of occasion, that she was picked up, dusted off, her face glowing pinker than the tikka planted lopsided on her forehead and carried, laughing to the train.

So – I was the very first official passenger on The Golden Chariot – and I certainly won’t be the last. This train is going to be booked out and famous pretty damn soon – for all the right reasons. My garland, my bunch of flowers and me, even, eventually, my luggage, all found their way onboard. And what a sight awaited me. Wow.

This train is a knock-out. The pictures on the website say it all. Huge double bed, flat screen television, flowers, a bottle of wine, assorted presents [including a stupid hat too big to bring home], robes, wi-fi – need I go on... Then, just down the corridor, massage rooms, a computer room, two restaurants, a gym, a bar car – there was probably a swimming pool as well – all shining new. Even the staff seemed spotless. The passengers were the grubbiest things aboard.

Everybody headed for the bar, the journalists to continue their vast free booze-up, the photographers to take many more pictures of me, the heavies to congratulate themselves and the British tourists to pour gin down their throats. It was a splendid scene.

Strangely, the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. Dinner was served [I think], new friends were met, conversations began – conversations that seemed to continue, unabated, for the next seven days. Everybody got along famously. Eventually I remember retiring to my bed, falling on to my deep mattress with a sigh – confused, over-excited and happy. The bed was moving but not because of the wine. We had begun our travels, the train had already set off, an event I seem to have missed in all the excitement, heading for the next place – wherever that was.

Let me confess my ignorance right now. I knew I was on a train and that the train left from Bangalore - but, in my enthusiasm, had forgotten to look on a map. Recall the circumstances in which I had booked the trip and the speed with which I had arrived. Frankly I had no idea where I was.

Bangalore, as I later discovered, was in a state called Karnataka - which is kinda down the bottom of India. This train was to visit every wonderful thing in that state – many amazing places - not one of which, to my shame, I’d ever heard of. It was a perfect way to start: muddle-headed, confused and not a little drunk. I let the itinerary unfold – like a child – without preconception or plan. Next morning I woke up in Mysore.

This trip report will never stop if I try to describe all the extraordinary things I saw in the next seven days – one day tumbled into another, a cavalcade of sights and sounds that I simply would never have seen had I not been on this train – we were escorted on and off buses, in and out of temples, palaces, cultural events, a game park, a thousand railway stations, cities, towns, countryside – a vast blast of beautiful things, a few boring ones, enthusiasm, irritation when things got completely out of control - a melange of Karnataka, all accompanied by the supremely odd mix of passengers, animated conversation, new instant best friends, kindness, the occasional glass of wine...

It’s all a bit of a blur - and there’s nothing wrong with that. Sometimes that’s just what you want – a rush of the unfamiliar, a crash-course in sensation, a scurry through the culture. Right now I was hungry for everything in the shop. It was quite a delicatessen. There were many things I loved – and, of course, some I didn’t much care for. I’ll try and separate a few of them in my next installment.

But, for this first few days of my adventure, like the greedy child I was, I allowed it to wash over me, taking in as much as I could, a tasty tourist thali of Karnataka – exactly the kind of the trip I, in my more politically correct moments, DISCOURAGE people from taking.

thursdaysd

Definitely fabulous! I'm SO looking forward to the rest of this! Your railway station description is priceless. I'm going to put a pointer to this over at Smart Travel for the solo travelers (we got merged into Smart Travel - does that say we're smarter?)

Kristina

Loving this already! More please!

TracyB

That train looks amazing..if it wasn't so expensive...!!! Great report, looking forward to reading more, makes me miss India!!

Craig

Love your writing style, Dogster - after reading your infamous Bhutan tale, I'd been looking forward to this report - keep it coming!

Kathie

Thank you, thank you for starting this wild and wonderful tale! I'm looking forward to more.

Wow! The train looks fabulous! And what an interesting itinerary.

dogster

You're all very kind. Very generous. Despite my seeming attitude I'm a bit of a sook when it comes to this stuff so your comments are much appreciated

And Kathie, unless you had asked, I don't think this would have appeared. Strange, isn't it, how we hold all this detail in our mind until the moment comes to unload? Not a note taken, not a list, not a phrase - all locked away in memory, ready to be downloaded.

My infamous Bhutan report [thanks Craig] occurred the same way. This is not quite such a purge. Yet.

As I said, a day by day rundown of the trip would take forever. Here are just two of many moments that stick in my mind – then tomorrow we’ll rapidly move on to Goa – and a whole different adventure.

I still have to tell you of my fabulous, luxury cruise... heh. Echoes of Bhutan, coming up.

Here goes.

dogster

The biggest willy I ever saw, in fact probably the biggest willy in the world, is attached to a gigantic nude Jain statue in Shravanabelagola, about an hour out of Hassan. The giant dong and its owner, Gommateshwara, stand perched on top of a VERY large hill and the only way to get there is up, up, up one million steps. Even the prospect of a huge naked statue was not enough to make that grind worthwhile.

Four thin Indians came to the rescue, carrying a sedan chair on poles. I cast my pride aside and stepped in. With a lurch we set off – by the time they hit the steps I was leant back at such an angle I thought I’d fall backwards off the chair - but once I got used to it, once I relaxed and decided to embrace my humiliation, I quite enjoyed it. It was apparent, by the grunts and groans of my bearers, they were not quite so enthusiastic.

Luckily, Dogster is a greyhound of a man – with a few changes in personnel and the distribution of a vast tip all parties got to the top quite content. I walked through the entrance and into the courtyard. There it was. Willy Wonka. What a sight.

The statue is 58 feet tall, chiseled from a single piece of rock, a boggling act of faith that, every 20 years is drowned in lorry-loads of milk, watched by mega-thousands of devotees. Today just a few of them were content to pour cow-juice over his big toe presided over by a chanting Jain priest, sitting bare-chested between his two enormous feet. It was a delicious scene, somehow profound, very moving – once I could take my eyes off the equally gigantic appendage hanging high over his head.

The others wandered off on various guided tours inside the rest of the complex – I was so taken by the epic simplicity of the scene I held back, took many photographs and tried to take it all in. Beside the priest was a young shaven-headed woman in a white robe with a look of such doe-eyed devotion, such dedication, I was mesmerized. Soft chanting, hands clasped in prayer... it was a beautiful scene. Everybody was in white; the statue was grey stone, the sky was light blue – the electric orange of the chrysanthemum garlands the only splash of colour in sight.

I was joined by the German tourists, fresh from their guided tour. His prayers finished, the priest stood up. To nobody’s surprise at all, except ours, he was stark bollock naked. Mrs. German let out a strangled squawk and fled. She had to be carried down the hill in my sedan chair and then fed schnapps.

I, on the other hand, rather liked it – not the priest’s willy, that was an image I didn’t really need to dwell on – but the Jain philosophy behind it all – the abandonment of clothes, possessions, home, family, wealth... I had a lot to think about on the long bus ride home.

Hampi

Hampi was hot, dusty and, to my stupid eyes, at first sight rather dull. Main street of Hampi Bazaar was lined with backpacker hovels, their dreadlocked inhabitants splayed in various attitudes of ‘coolness’ in the restaurants along the road, waiting, no doubt, for their daily dose of diarrhea to prove just how cool they were.

An elephant blessed tourists with its trunk inside Virupaksha temple, rather tall, multi-layered Shiva structure, more impressive outside than in, surrounded by stalls selling tourist tat that overflowed onto the dirt. Huge, barren boulders made up a surrounding landscape that, seen in the right light, with the right drugs, must have been impressive.

We were zoomed round the sites efficiently enough, lectured, corralled and bused to the next one. I like my sites to be living, not ruins, generally. As I never listen to the guide, nor read a guidebook in these situations, I had no idea what I was seeing. Just ruins. I was having an attack of ignorance at the time. On another day, in different company, perhaps I would have found it fascinating but for the first part of the day I was distinctly underwhelmed.

We trundled from place to place, like a giant tourist caterpillar, in and out of buses, hot, bothered and tired. Eventually, late afternoon we headed for the piece de resistance – the legendary Golden Chariot, the very object our train was named after. You’ll see the pictures on the website. It’s famous – rightly so – as is Vittala temple surrounding it.

Nearby, on the river-bank, blankets had been spread out, refreshments provided while five dancers did their Indian thing, very gracefully, very beautifully, as the sun set behind the temple. It should have been sublime but I was in a grump, thinking that perhaps we might be allowed to see the most famous site in Hampi BEFORE the sun went down. So I demanded a car, left the group and went inside.

I was the only one there. The sun slid down behind the hills and my spirits slid up. Just me and the Golden Chariot and my special temple, covered with delicious carving, the details etched sharper each second as the shadows grew. An ancient frangipani tree covered in new white blossoms stood silhouetted against the sky, night slowly tumbled around me and, just for my private thirty minutes, I was lost in awe. One of the pictures I took that evening is my screen-saver. I look at it every day.

After sunset the group arrived. That was fine – I’d had my moment alone – that’s what I’d been craving all day - my soul was at peace. We were gathered for a special occasion, the illumination of the temple – a special event, just for us - if only someone could find the key to turn on the lights. We waited – and waited. Ten minutes turned into an hour and the bonhomie started to fade. New best friends got a bit bored, the photographers started to fret. There was nothing to see.

Then, just in time, just before the troops turned rancid, in a single instant of wonder the illuminations were switched on. If there was a high point to the train trip – this was it. The main temple and the surrounds were lit in a pure white light, every detail of the sculptures, the pillars, the friezes glowed gold - gold, gold, wonderful gold. For one stunning hour we wandered, each of us just lost in awe. We were allowed inside the forbidden area, the guides played the musical columns, we stood and stared and felt very small, very poor, very humble. Well, I did, anyway.

I could weep just thinking about it. Incredible India.

Marija

Thanks! More, more...

dogster

Hi Marija, and thanks: here's my chance to compliment you on your India report which I re-read just the other day. I was thinking about you and your husband in Varanasi - room 304 at the Rashmi Guest House overlooked the Jantar Mantar observatory you visited.

Now, back to the grind.

Kathie

I'm awaiting the next installment. As fabulous as the train looked, I was wondering how it would be for you to be touring with that huge group... I'm now learning how you coped with it.

dogster

Lol Kathie: read on.

dogster

Not everything was quite so sublime: there were the ups – there were the downs. Here’s a couple of the latter.

By the last full day of temple touring the schedule was getting a little bit out of whack. Well, to be honest, it had collapsed. It was quite impossible to keep the group together. The journalists and photographers could no longer be controlled, neither, for that matter, could the Dog.

This was a long, long day – one that by next year won’t be a problem, when the train will stop at Badami, not Gadag - but for us maiden voyagers it was interminable. A time and motion study says it all: total bus travel, faffing around, cups of tea, lunch and wee breaks: 12 hours. Time spent at the three sites, Badami, Aihole and Pattakal: 2 hours, 40 minutes. Point made. All three sites were very fine but, by the time we got to them, I was ready to kill. The travel I could deal with – it was our turn for the Guide From Hell.

Each place we visited had its own separate guide, a local man who knew his topic thoroughly, who launched into his routine like a clockwork toy. Our guide for today had been wound up too tight. He joined us after three hours and forty minutes of solid driving on the bus. We still had another 45 minutes to go. We were tired, hungry and trapped like startled rabbits in a cage. He stood in front of the bus, grabbed the microphone and, in a high pitched monotone, shrieked at us for exactly 45 minutes while we travelled to the first site. He paused to draw breath for a total of exactly 45 seconds. I know. I counted. Excruciating.

I have no idea what he was talking about. History, culture, religion, I neither knew – nor cared. He was impossible to understand. This was not giving information – it was force-feeding. Not one of the foreign tourists listened to a word. Nor could we turn him off. He was a misery – and, you know, I suspect he was an expert. The Indians on board all understood what he was saying, had some background, some innate knowledge of the blizzard of facts and gods and history – the foreigners had no idea at all. Being screeched at, non-stop, all afternoon was appalling, like a drill boring [and I mean, boring] into your brain. That, coupled with his impenetrable accent, created what was, in 67 countries, the worst guide experience I’ve ever had. Knowledge [apparently] 10/10 – people skills – zero.

The only thing I remember was him pointing out the penis fields on our way. [They were, of course, ‘peanut’ fields – but that didn’t stop me hopefully looking out the window for a row of little pink sausages – anything to divert my attention from the relentless shriek piercing my ears.]

Memo for the guide: do NOT clap your hands and screech ‘hurry up!’at the guests when at temples. We are not dogs.

At Pattadakal, a world-famous heritage site and last stop for the day, he corralled us outside the gates to the temples, standing between us and what we’d come to see.

‘Fifteen minutes for explanation, five minutes for photographs!’ he shouted, then launched into the next speech. I just pushed my way past him and went in, leaving the rest of the group meekly listening while he droned on, and on – and on.

But this where he was coming from: for him the history, the explanation was far more important than the site. He couldn’t SEE the beauty. The art, the carving, the ambience all faded into a dim insignificance beside the meaning - perhaps he had a point, but one entirely lost on me. I’d come to see, to experience - not for a lecture.

I had a choice between ignoring him - or killing him. Luckily I chose the former – but only just. There was a brief explosion of rage that may, or may not, have come from Dogster, just at the end of the day when he announced angrily, his temper also at breaking point after trying to control eighty-seven witless tourists, ‘You have two minutes for a toilet break – hurry up or we’ll leave without you - and you’ll miss your train.’

Goa

It was the last full day of the trip. Spirits were high – everybody looking forward to day in the sun. After the familiar kerfuffle and a longish drive, we tumbled out of the buses at Calangute. The road led straight down to the beach, a road lined with a thousand shops, all selling the same hideous tourist crap. Wandering down that road were over-weight European tourists in skimpy bathing costumes, their voluminous flesh imprinted with the sunburnt impressions of the clothes they’d worn the day before. I just wanted to take some of them aside and say, gently, ‘Go home. Look in a mirror. Don’t ever come out like this in public again. You’re scaring the children...’

Alas, there weren’t many children in sight - just mountains of white European flesh intent on a good time. I wandered further, down to the beach, a vast, crowded strip of what once was sand, covered in hundreds and hundreds of Indians lads ogling sun-baking European women, hoping for a glimpse of that forbidden foreign skin. Seemingly oblivious to all this attention, the French, German, Russian,British package tourists lay spread out on the sand, legs akimbo, sunglasses askew, staring contently at the sun. Obviously, coming from Europe, they only saw the sun for a week or so a year so had piled in their thousands on to cheap, discount airlines and arrived, en masse, in Goa.

I was to reflect on the allure of Goa at length on a later occasion. It occurs to me that when those hippies set out on their voyage of discovery, all those years ago, they came from Europe, Great Britain – from the cold, from the snow, the grime and horror. Goa must have been the first place they saw a beach, a palm tree, felt heat and some form of contentment – so they stayed: the myth grew. Plentiful quantities of marijuana and cheap alcohol fuelled the fire. The myth grew some more.

For those of us from Australia, having passed on our quest through Asia, having actually seen a palm tree before, having spent a childhood on the beach, having seen the sun at least once before, the beaches of Goa look pretty damn ordinary.

I’ve spent some considerable time on the beaches of Sri Lanka – I know what they are used for in this culture: illicit sex and defecation. At the time of my arrival in Goa the media was full of shock about the case of that unfortunate fifteen year-old British tourist, Scarlett Keeling.

Now Goa could add another use for the beaches: underage gang-rape and murder.

I fled. Quite by accident, all seven foreign tourists found ourselves huddled in the same beach-front bar – horrified at what we found. We’d lasted fifteen minutes. I think the rest of the train was having a wonderful time. To us it was hideous.